Who Am I?
by Oni Mathier
Summary: What makes an individual who they are? Is it what is on the inside or what is on the outside…or perhaps somewhere in between?  Prowl is about to find out, whether he wants to or not. Crack ahoy!
1. And the Trouble Begins

**Who Am I **(Intro)

Transformers (G1) Verse  
Rating: PG…for now  
Characters: Prowl, Ratchet

Warnings: Uhm…gender switching and a wee bit of cussing.

_A/N: This story is inspired by those few TF gender (term used loosely here) fanfics/fanarts out there. Definitely read "500 Miles" by Crimson Starlight and "Switch" by Beregond if you haven't already.  
__There be craziness ahead in this fic. You have been warned. ;)_

**What makes an individual who they are? Is it what is on the inside or what is on the outside…or perhaps somewhere in between?**

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* * *

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Ratchet waited for his processes to catch up with the scene before him, feeling the rare buzz of a system failure lurking in his processors. It did not help when the smaller bot looked up at him with such a beseeching expression—one that was completely out of place on the other's faceplates. The glimmer of fluid lining their bright blue optics was most foreboding to the medic. He could feel it threatening to fall at any moment and the larger bot knew that once it did, there would be no stopping the 'waterworks.'

"Please, Ratchet…" the softer voice pleaded with him, stepping even closer to the panicked medic as their lower lip trembled terribly. Slender white hands were clasped tightly to an equally white chest plate.

There was a muted clang and suddenly the smaller, more curved form was pressed against his frame in a very distracting way. Distracting and extremely disturbing considering whom the other seemed to actually be. Awkwardly, Ratchet wrapped his arms around the now trembling and sobbing bot that clung haphazardly to his boxy chassis.

"There, there…uh…Prowl." Here, he patted the other bot's back plates carefully between the twin sensory panels that had remained the exact same, trying to sooth the seriously distraught tactician. Never in the long, long time that he had known the Autobot's second-in-command had he ever seen this normally composed individual completely break down like this. Even the destruction of Praxus had not garnered this kind of reaction. Then again, he had never known this particular bot as anything other than a mech.

The weeping monochromatic femme currently in his possession was definitely an unexpected turn of events. She (and YES she was definitely female) had burst into his med bay mere moments ago, seeking him out amongst the rows of empty berths and had effectively cornered the much larger mech in his office. She had practically begged him, while the two door panels of her back quivered in suppressed fear and anxiety, to explain then fix whatever had happened.

Stunned by her appearance, the medic had first thought that somehow one of Elita-One's femmes had managed to make it through the space bridge and to their base. The red and white mech had even gone so far as preparing to open a comm. line to the bridge to explain the situation to the officer on duty when the slender femme decided to invade his personal space.

His confusion was further compounded when the femme had asked him point blank why HE had changed into what she was. Finally taking in the familiar paint job and red chevron that adorned this new bot his mind skipped the last few steps to a stunning conclusion. Somehow Prowl, the Autobot's head tactician and SIC, was now very much a femme.

* * *

The garish orange ceiling came fuzzily into view as Prowl's optics flickered online. With a groan, he lifted a servo to his chevron and rubbed tiredly at the soreness radiating from the central point of his helm. The throbbing in his processors abated enough to allow the bot to actually focus on what had just happened to land him flat on his back in the middle of one of the Ark's storage rooms. Palm sliding flat over his faceplates in an attempt to sooth his sensors further, Prowl stopped short when his digits encountered a pair of rather plump lips in place of where a normally thin and sharp set lay. Processes now coming online fully in a sparkbeat, the tactician sat up swiftly, moaning as his tank argued against the action and ran his servo over his faceplates again.

More changes became apparent under his questing fingertips. His normally sharp and prominent nasal ridge was smaller—more curved and ended higher. Cheek arches also felt higher set in his faceplates and the cheeks themselves seemed fuller. Staring in confusion at the other servo resting in his lap, the tactician also took note that the hand which was most definitely his appeared more slender and almost…delicate. Both of his new hands could have easily fit into one of his previous ones.

_What in the name of Antiquity?_

The formerly prominent hood of his alt mode stared back at him. Optics blinking slowly off, then once more almost painfully on the tactician took in the altered curvature of his chest plate and the noticeable concave middle that gave the alarming impression of cleavage.

Awaiting the inevitable crash of his logic center, the black and white bot braced himself. After a minute, then two went by without anything happening, the tactician ran an internal diagnostic to try to figure out why he was not laid out on the floor again. The scan went quickly and as he scrolled through the results, coolant flooded his lines.

His battle computer was no longer active. Not only that, it was now only a peripheral system when as before it had been a primary and integral part of his body.

Deciding that he really had just had enough surprises for one day, Prowl braced one elegant servo on the floor to leverage himself up and to his pedes (which he sourly noted were also quite dainty). Fists clenched and doorwings held high, the somewhat shapely Datsun left the small pile of datapads that not just moments ago had been so important to him in their respective disorganized piles on the floor and marched his (her?) way to the med bay. The hope being to demand an answer to this hallucination and the subsequent cure, if not a good knock over the helm for good measure.

It took him longer than Prowl had expected to reach the med bay proper. The black and white SIC had gone to great lengths to avoid detection by the few Autobots wandering the halls, as well as Red Alert's myriad of hidden and not-so-hidden cameras. By the time he was safely ensconced inside the (thankfully!) empty med bay, he felt the disturbing burn of coolant tears at the back of his optics.

Shaking the sudden emotional onslaught off both physically and metaphorically, the tactician sought out the Autobot's CMO. Upon locating his hunched over form at the desk in his office, the black and white stalked towards him with all of the due intention of a lioness stalking her prey. He did not even stop upon the threshold to give the medic some forewarning as his decorum software would have had him do. Instead, the smaller bot marched right up to good ol' Ratchet and…froze when he turned his way.

The seasoned medic actually did a double take at his form and it was all that Prowl could do to hold onto the resolve and righteous fury that backed it as he took in the other's shocked expression.

"Ratchet, you have to help me." Dear Primus, even his vocals were higher and softer.

"Huh?" The medic had yet to pick his lower jaw up from its place on the floor.

Now frustrated and feeling just a little bit more unstable, Prowl clasped his hands in front of his curvy chest, pleading with the other. "Please, Ratchet…"

He felt the sting of tears and this time couldn't hold back the keen as he all, but fell into the medic's stunned form, clinging to the larger mech like a lifeline as the tactician's emotion circuits surged and overtook all other processes.

The boxy medic's field fluctuated against Prowl's own wildly changing one and his sensor panels picked up on the hesitant arms that hovered above his shoulder guards before wrapping tentatively around his quivering form. That action just made more coolant stream down the sides of Prowl's heart-shaped faceplates and he buried them in the cool windshield in front of him in shame.

From his position, the black and white felt more than heard Ratchet awkwardly attempt to calm him down, the deep rumble of his engine soothing some of the tactician's fritzing diodes. That in itself was enough for Prowl to try once again to rein in his emotions and he took a few deep draughts of air through his intakes to help cool his internals as well. For a few moments, all was quite in the small office as neither bot dared to move.

Finally, almost hesitantly, the smaller of the two backed away—optics fixed firmly on the ground as they attempted to wipe the trails of liquid from the rims of large optics.

Ratchet cleared his vocal processor…CPU almost stopping again as he tried to think of what to say before eons of experience kicked in and the CMO just approached this situation the way he did every single other time.

With blunt, angry honesty.

"What the FRAG happened to you?"

The smaller bot jerked back in surprise, optics widening more as she looked up at the medic. The shock only lasted a moment before the femme changed gears like the flip of a light switch.

"I do not know WHAT happened to me, Ratchet. That is why I came to you. One moment I was my usual self running inventory, the next I online like this." And here the black and white femme gestured to herself and inadvertently a rather shapely pair of legs.

Ratchet's optics followed the irate motions of the SIC's hands before his optics shot right back up from where they lingered. Thankfully, Prowl was too busy ranting to notice.

"How could this possibly have happened? To me of all bots, none the less."

Helplessly, the medic just shrugged his red-crossed shoulders watching as the slender form took to pacing the short distance in front of him.

"Perhaps it was something in the energon that I ingested? Maybe the Decepticons were trying some new weapon and I just can not recall being in its path? What could have possibly caused this?" That beseeching expression was back once again as the Datsun turned and focused back on her captive audience.

"Slow the slag down, Prowl. You're making my processor ache." Rubbing his helm, Ratchet gestured to one of the medical berths just outside his door. "Why don't I run a few scans on you and find out exactly what has been affected and we can work our way backwards from that?"

Folding her more streamlined arms under her black bumper, Prowl pursued her lips in thought before nodding once in agreement. Grace was definitely nothing new to the tactician, but the new form simply emphasized that point more so as she quickly crossed to the empty berth and sat along its shorter side, long legs dangling above the floor.

Ratchet wasted no time in running both basic maintenance scans and more invasive system scans on the tactician. The good and perhaps bad thing about Cybertronian technology was the speed in which data could be catalogued, analyzed and orderly presented. It only took a mere 10 minutes of Earth's time for the scans to complete and the results made available to the CMO.

Ratchet did his best to ignore the fidgeting femme behind him as he perused the data, optic ridges shifting upwards beneath his jet black chevron at the information being displayed. After a few more minutes of complete silence and being ignored, the SIC couldn't take it anymore.

"Well?"

Letting out a draft of air from this intakes (a Cybertronian's sigh) Ratchet slowly turned to his current, and probably for the foreseeable immediate future, patient.

"Well, Prowl the good news is that whatever changes occurred, they appear to be have finished with no real harm to your systems or structure. You shouldn't have to worry about anything else happening."

"However…?" A low voice asked cautiously.

"However…it's not just changes to your frame that have happened."

Cerulean blue optics narrowing in response, the black and white femme waited for the other gavel to drop.

"Apparently, you do not just look like a femme, Prowl. Physically, your internals match the same expected specifications as a standard Cybertronian femme." Ratchet warily watched the seated black and white's door wings for a clue as to what she was thinking.

Optics focused somewhere over his shoulder, Prowl managed to work out of her gaping mouth, "You mean that I am truly…a femme?"

Wincing, Ratchet nodded in response. The female Autobot started shaking her head in denial, optics shuttering as her tiny hands clenched into tiny fists on her lap.

"NO!" The femme shouted unexpectedly.

Now, Ratchet had plenty of experience with bots of all shapes and sizes in his lifetime and he was no fool. Backing away slowly in an attempt to simultaneously not draw attention to himself and not set off the ticking time bomb in his med bay, the medic only made it a few steps before he was caught. The tactician's glare was always something to fear, but the femme tactician's glare made Ratchet want to find the deepest, darkest hole on this planet and bury himself in it for the next millennia or two. That should be enough time for the tactician to cool down.

"Ratchet, I can not stay this way. I. AM. A. MECH. This is physically impossible and completely improbable."

"Take it easy, Prowl." The mostly white mech held his red servos up in a placating gesture towards the bristling femme. "This is going to take some time to figure out and probably even longer to straighten you out. I can't do anything for you right now, save for prescribe some rest and take you off-duty for the time being."

"WHAT?" The screech nearly blew off the medic's audios and he was surprised that no other bots came bursting through the door at the sound of bloody murder.

"I have to take you off duty…"

"I heard what you said." She angrily cut the mech off, mid-sentence. Ratchet did his best to bite his glossa as the normally mild-mannered SIC continued on her emotional rollercoaster. It wasn't really her fault. Not only had she switched genders, but the CMO had also noticed (and surreptitiously failed to mention) both her battle computer and logic center had been rewritten such that they operated in a secondary roll. This was a first for the smaller bot, which meant that she had not learned quite what it meant to control her emotions as of yet and was therefore going to need a crash course.

"Good, so you can stop yelling." Ratchet snarked back, mouth sadly on autopilot.

Looking offended, the tactician rose a pearl-white servo to her chestplate and gasped, "I am most certainly not yelling. You are just not listening to me."

Frown deepening, the medic regarded the femme, concern for her well being going out the proverbial window.

"That's enough. You are a senior officer of this crew, Prowl and I expect you of all bots to behave that way. I don't care if you are a mech or a femme, a frontliner, a minibot or fraggin' Primus himself, you will show me respect—especially in my med bay."

Ratchet glowered down at the slight form, optics flashing in ire.

Silence, blessed silence greeted the fuming mech.

Looking quite abashed, Prowl hunched down in her seat, sensor panels falling low and to the sides.

After a moment she spoke, sounding much more subdued, but at least in control of herself. "I apologize, Ratchet. I meant no offense to you. This situation is just…difficult for me." The last word was said almost with bitterness and the medic deflated slightly in response.

"I understand. That's why I want you off duty until we have all of this sorted out. It isn't about you being a femme, at least, not specifically. You need time to adjust to the changes for however long they might last and I need Wheeljack out of recharge to help me solve this situation."

The tactician did not brighten in mood, but at least she ventured to meet his optics. "Again, I am sorry, Ratchet. I will do as you say."

Nodding to himself, the medic eased the new femme off the berth, leading her towards the main doors.

At the threshold, the SIC turned to the now significantly larger mech and queried, "Will you inform Prime, then?"

Sighing again, the CMO nodded, rubbing a large, red servo along the back of tired neck cables. "Yes, in this instance I have to."

"Will you tell the rest of the crew as well?"

"I don't know. I can promise you that I will not tell anyone else until Prime orders me to do so and at that point I will give you a heads up first, Prowl."

Smiling softly, Prowl regarded the medic. "Thank you, Ratchet."

Ratchet felt a little silly as he smiled back automatically in response to the angelic expression that seemed so natural on this face, but would have been completely out-of-place on Prowl's previous faceplates.

"Don't mention it. I mean it. Now scat—it's getting late and the morning crew will be up soon. Best be in your quarters before then." He gave the small femme a light push between the door wings out of the med bay and watched as she turned before cautiously making her way back towards the Ark's officer's quarters.

Shaking his helm, Ratchet aimed a look towards the heavens before opening a comm. to Prime.

Things were about to get very interesting for the Ark.

* * *

_A/N: O-kay then. Well, that was interesting. I still do not know the direction this is going to head, but I do know that poor Prowl is in for a real treat. Hopefully this story is moderately amusing so far, ne? ^_^_


	2. Elita1's Newest Recruit?

**Who Am I **(Part 1)

Transformers (G1) Verse  
Rating: PG…for now  
Characters: Prowl, Ratchet, Jazz and Optimus Prime (when he finishes hiding)

Warnings: Nothing yet. Just mechs being out of sorts and…curious.

_A/N: __Hello again! I very much hope that you enjoy this next installment of poor Prowl's misbegotten adventure. Thank you to everyone who has read, fav'd, alert'd, reviewed this story. It lets me know as a n00b writer that I am at least putting something of interest out there for you. Please enjoy! ^_^_

* * *

If the situation had been any different, Ratchet was sure that he would have been delighting in rolling around on the floor laughing all the way from the pointy tips of his chevrons to the base of his pedes. As it was, the only indication of his internal amusement was a minor tick to the side of his faceplates, betraying any real humor at the situation. The jaw-dropped, flabbergasted and flummoxed expressions on every single officer in the room along with the massively echoing silence just served to drive home the reality of the moment.

Frell. It's not everyday you tell your Executive Officer that his second would suddenly be better off serving under Elita-One.

*_cough_* "_What _did ya say Ratch'?" Ironhide barely managed to choke up from his gaping maw. If optics could bulge, it was certain that the Weapons Specialist's would be damn well near cartoon proportions.

"I know your audios are not malfunctioning Ironhide, I just looked at them the last time you were in getting shrapnel removed from your aft."

A couple of nervous chuckles crept out around the assembled, breaking some of the tableau that seemed to have settled heavily over the group. The broad, red mech grumbled at the comment, but at least subsided in his interruptions.

The Prime however had no such inclination.

"How is this even possible, Ratchet?"

Optimus was _definitely_ having the most difficulty comprehending things. Not that Ratchet could blame him. Frag it all though, Prime wasn't the one who just had to deal with having an attractive femme pressed up against him (_after Primus knows how long_) out of the blue then subsequently found out that it was his second-in-command. _That_ in and of itself was enough for the medic to feel a little less than jovial and having to conduct an emergency briefing on top of that, well…

Releasing a sharp gust of air, Ratchet ran a red servo over his faceplates asking for some last reserve of strength from Primus for dealing with what his deity had felt inclined to drop into his lap.

"Honestly Optimus, I'm not quite certain yet. All of the base scans that I have run on Prowl are indicative of her having been a femme since creation, but as you well know that is not the case. Regardless of the reasons, Prowl has with utmost certainty undergone a massive physical transformation and not just externally—her internals and very spark resonance are now inline with a perfectly healthy femme. The only bright side that I see to this so far is that she seems to bear no signs of physical trauma."

"Something that we should be thankful for, I imagine." The Prime intoned solemnly.

"Indeed."

"And what of the state of his, I mean, _her_ processors?" Perceptor piped up from his end of the oval table. Ratchet had noticed how riveted the science officer had been on him ever since he made his announcement. No doubt he was itching to study the gender-bent tactician. The CMO made a note to keep a close optic on the scientist as he had the tendency to be a little overzealous when something caught his intellectual interest. The last thing that Prowl needed was to be treated like some kind of lab specimen. The ambulance almost started in surprise at the sharp rev his engine suddenly took along with the direction his thoughts were going.

_What was that?_

Clearing his vocals, the CMO did his best to clinically respond.

"In general terms, she's as well as can be expected, but I am not going to shade the facts here folks—Prowl's going through something that would be foreign and disruptive to any one of us to say the very least. That she is doing as well as she is, well…we should really give our tactician a little more credit for that."

"Honestly, Doc I'm surprised Prowl's logic center didn't crash before she even got to ya'." A melodic set of vocals broke in.

Ratchet sternly regarded the black and white tilting precariously back in his chair. "That would be because Prowl's battle computer is no longer part of her primary systems."

The slam of Jazz's chair legs rocking back to the floor with subsequently all of his weight behind it preceded the room dropping back into a state of complete silence. Although Prowl normally did not require his battle computer to be the brilliant strategist that he was, there was no question that it was an indispensable resource in their struggle against the Decepticons. Ratchet imagined that the scenarios that were being generated in some mechs' minds definitely set the majority of the bots in the room even further ill at ease.

Huffing in frustration and more than a little irked at their apparent lack of confidence in their SIC, the medic felt it pertinent to remind them of that fact.

"It's not as though Prowl's lost the ability to plan tactically. It just means that she has some extra variables to factor in before making a decision."

"And she will be ready to do so by our next altercation?" Red Alert had remained quite sullen and silent up until this point, but felt that now was an opportune time to interject his own concerns. All helms turned once again to the boxy white mech at the 'head' of the table.

Rubbing the back of his neck, Ratchet had to think about how best to phrase his response. He in no way wanted to paint the tactician into a corner in regards to her abilities, but at the same time the CMO was not willing to risk his patient on a 'good guess'.

"Well, I wouldn't go so far as to say that. I need to monitor Prowl over the next few weeks and make sure these changes assimilate fine for her, particularly in the realm of higher functions. For now, it's my recommendation to place Prowl on medical leave until I can deem her fit to function."

A few raised voices immediately met this suggestion. Some in vehement disagreement, like Jazz and Ironhide, others demanding even steeper precautions, such as…well…Red Alert. Ratchet sighed miserably and let their arguments wash over him. A glance to his left revealed the Prime not looking to be doing much better than when he had originally heard the news. At least it looked like he was considering everything that he had been told, but the unexpected event had still definitively set his XO on edge.

Wearily, Optimus raised a large servo signaling for the group to quiet down. It took a few moments, but eventually the volume dropped down to a murmur.

"What do you suggest be done in the mean time, Ratchet?"

"Besides keeping a close optic on Prowl, I'd like Wheeljack's and Perceptor's help in figuring out this…mystery as to why Prowl changed. Maybe if we can at least deduce that we can work on a solution for turning our tactician back to normal."

"And if there is no way to reverse this?"

Wincing at the question, Ratchet revocalized what he had earlier said partially-joking as a way to break the ice for this meeting. "If there is no solution, then we may have to consider that Prowl would be better off back on Cybertron helping Elita-1 and her forces."

Holding a red servo, palm out to forestall the immediate reaction to his statement, the medic continued. "Let's face it mechs, Prowl may have been able to keep the bots in line before, but with the change to her spark frequency alone we are going to be hard-pressed to keep things in perspective. It's been several millennia since any of us have been with a femme and frankly I'm worried about the trouble it will cause to have a single femme living among so many unbonded mechs."

With the gravity of the situation finally_ truly_ sinking in, Ratchet watched as his counterparts deflated after looking at things from this new angle.

"That may be the case, Ratchet, but let us hope that it does not come down to that decision. I have served with Prowl since I first became Prime and I for one would prefer not to lose him as a member of this team, regardless of whether Prowl is mech or femme."

A few nods echoed back in response to the Prime's words.

"Ratchet, please proceed as you see fit with helping Prowl. The rest of the command staff will need to explain Prowl's new appearance. Jazz. Ironhide. I am counting on you two to run interference if necessary and keep the mechs in line. The last thing we need are a bunch of mischieveous bots making trouble for our tactician. Understood?"

"Yes, Prime."

"You got it!"

"Roger that."

"Very well. For now, everyone return to your posts and brief the mechs on duty as to the situation. Jazz, as you are currently off-duty, please speak with whomever is on break at the moment. Ratchet, perhaps you should advise Prowl to remain in her quarters for the time being until everyone is brought up to speed."

Ironhide barked a sharp laugh.

"Good luck with that one, Prime. You know better'n anyone how hard it is to keep Prowl from workin'."

Prime sighed, but nodded in agreement.

"That is true, but in this case I think that Prowl will be slightly more amenable to the request."

Everything said was true enough, but Ratchet knew better than to just expect Prowl to bow down to the temporary dismissal of work. The trick was to play at the tactician's own game and he made that abundantly clear to the others.

"The last thing that Prowl needs to be doing is trying to avoid the situation with work. If I have to make it by medical order, I will." The grumbling threat in the medic's tone was unmistakable and not a bot in that room doubted he would follow through if need be.

Frowning darkly, Ratchet stood abruptly from his seat and stalked out, the others following suit at a slightly less foreboding pace.

* * *

The cacophony of many heavy-set mechs leaving the conference room and heading in their respective directions rang along the Ark's brilliant orange hallways for several long minutes. A solitary black and white form remained, casually leaning against the open doorway from which all of the Ark's officers had previously dispersed from.

Now, the responsible and reasonable action would have been for Jazz to do as he had been instructed to—go straight to the recreation room and graciously inform the staff currently on break of the recent changes to their CO, as well as field any questions or concerns that they might have. After all, it was one of the TIC's regular duties to act as liaison between the rank and file and the command staff—a task that he did rather well (_if Jazz didn't say so himself_).

Then again, sadly neither the Prime nor the CMO had factored in the saboteur's penchant for mischief, nor his often sparkling-like curiosity over all things shiny and new. Had they perhaps stopped to think about the black and white's assignment for more than a few microseconds, they may have sent Jazz to an entirely different destination—one that did not involve walking by the Autobot second-in-command's door. As it was, the temptation was simply too great and the opportunity could not be passed by. Jazz could be accused of many things, but he rarely was late to get in a tease at his good friend's expense. That…and perhaps he was just a bit curious as to Prowl's new look.

Stopping rather nonchalantly by the innocuous third door down along that particular section of hall, he raised a black servo and tapped a jaunty rhythm onto the closed door. The door chime would have been far too boring a greeting in the mood that he was in.

Seconds, then minutes ticked by on the visored mech's chrono without so much as a response from inside the tightly shuttered room. There was no doubt that the tactician was in his (_her?_) room and as the time drew closer to the eight minute mark, Jazz decided that he had enough.

"Prowl, stop sulking and open up th' door. It's just me."

Another half a minute passed accompanied by no noise from within and the saboteur felt his optic ridge tick upwards ever so slightly.

"I'm serious. You open this door now or I am going to give you 'till the count of three and then _I'm_ opening it. Your choice, Prowler."

Frowning now as his audios detected a slight shuffle of parts, but the door still had yet to budge the saboteur began his countdown, uncaring of whoever might overhear him.

"ONE…It doesn't have to be this way you know…"

"TWO…I hate to have to explain this to Prime…"

"TWO AND A HA…_erk!_"

The black and white saboteur suddenly found himself yanked by the audio horn into the now open doorway. He had a second to glimpse a pair of white servos before he completed his journey, sailing through the room and subsequently finding the corner of the tactician's desk with his thigh.

"_Ow!_ Slag it, Prowl. You don't need to be so rough about it."

Rubbing his audio horn as well as his thigh to sooth the dented plating and the slight ache, Jazz turned around to continue his tirade only to stop short.

"Huh."

The shorter, slender form with her arms crossed protectively across her chestplates, door wings perked high, but twitching in probable agitation was definitely NOT what the third had been expecting. Oh, she was definitely Prowl. Of that there was no doubt in his processors. The femme held herself the same and certainly the sizzling glare practically sparking out of her icy blue optics was quite familiar. What really threw things off (and that was ignoring those long legs…_hmm…_) was the pair of ruby red lip plates pursued into a perfect pout.

Jazz really could not stop looking the longer that he stood there sizing her up and after a few minutes of nothing, but a staring match Prowl became more than a bit irritated.

With a growl from one black and white the other, Prowl threw her hands up in frustration.

"Just get on with it, Jazz. Laugh, tease, whatever—just do it and leave me alone."

The voice was definitely not expected either. Not in any way. Jazz didn't know what he had assumed Prowl would sound like, but the light soprano with lilting inflections that came out was definitely not it. After once again attempting to reign in his shock the saboteur replied to the overly defensive femme.

"I'm not plannin' on doing any of those, Prowl. I just wanted to see how you're holding up?"

"How am I doing? How am I _doing_? Oh, I do not know, Jazz. One moment my life is it usual perfectly normal and orderly self and the next I have turned into something that I am most certainly not and nobody knows why or how. Ratchet removed me from my duties, so I do not even have at least _that_ to distract me with."

The femme's vocals wobbled for a moment as her smaller form seemed to further shrink in on itself. Sensor panels drooped with an audible clank as Prowl pushed past the shell-shocked mech to drop onto the edge of her berth, back plates facing the saboteur. Minute tremors went through the slight frame as she attempted once again to bring her fluctuating emotional center back to rights.

In a smaller voice, Prowl finished. "How do you think I am doing?"

It was funny how such a minor thing like a soft voice and bright optics could change a mech's gut reaction, Jazz mused. But he was helpless to do anything less than gingerly seat his frame next to the quaking form of his best friend and companionably put an arm over her shoulders. Prowl tensed for a moment at the unexpected contact, but the saboteur was patient enough to wait the normally stubborn tactician out. Eventually, she relaxed and leaned shoulder to shoulder with him as they had the habit of doing. They both had come to rely upon their friendship as a support system throughout this long and terrible war.

As strange as it was for the TIC to be so close to a femme without being his usual amorous self, it was also not so different being near this new version of his friend. Slag, if it helped out Prowl in some way, he'd suffer the slight discomfort for the time being.

After he felt that the silence had run its course, the saboteur gave his companion a nudge.

"Hey."

"What?"

"Don't let this get you down. Just think of it as a new way of challenging yourself."

"You mean I did not have enough challenges in my normal day-to-day routine?"

"Heh. Yeah, you're probably right about that one, but the Prowl I know isn't the type to just give up and hide in the face of something new." The Porsche slid a sly look at the femme. "And I know that you are still Prowl…no matter how sleek your new frame is."

The monochromatic femme gave a slight huff before playful shoving the leering, visored bot away.

"Oh! You would say something like that, wouldn't you?" Prowl eyed the now taller mech next to her with exasperation, but she could not help the slight twitch of a smile that started to curve her lip plates. As unconventional as the saboteur could be, he did always have a way of breaking past the tactician's carefully built façade and for once, she really did not mind that fact.

The femme's waxing smile was so slight that it could have been a trick of the light, but the genuine nature of it made Jazz suddenly feel happy in ways that he could not explain. All teasing and tormenting about his friend's predicament was forgotten in the face of this gently smiling femme in his company. So much so, in fact that he forgot to produce the expected retort to the strategist's statement.

Opening his mouth plates in an attempt to not lose the odd moment, he was just as suddenly stopped as the smaller bot yawned broadly. Jazz gave the femme one last careful nudge of his shoulder plating before standing up. Turning slightly to regard her, the saboteur smirked.

"Whelp, it looks like I've kept you from your beauty rest for far to long. Why don't you try to get some recharge in? I'm sure things'll look a little brighter in the morning."

Rolling her sky blue optics in response, the tactician never the less complied. She even went so far as to scoot back onto her berth before curling delicately onto her side.

"Hmph. Goodnight, Jazz."

Prowl watched the mech expectantly, waiting for him to leave her quarters so that she could finally give into the exhaustion that had been plaguing her all evening.

"Yeah, yeah. Same to you." The black and white bot gave a quick wave and turned to exit, but stopped in the now open doorway—the light from the hall outlining his frame. "Don't let the Insecticons bite!" He sing-songed before promptly ducking out of the room, a data file barely missing his helm.

The door winged femme shook her head in resignation before lying back down upon her metallo mesh berth. One last sleepy smile remained upon her faceplates even after she had completely powered down and finally entered into recharge mode.

Outside, leaning against the wall next to the SIC's now closed doorway, the saboteur had to wipe a near identical smile off his faceplates. He had not even noticed when it had gotten there. The thought was one that he was not ready to think too hard about in the first place.

* * *

_A/N: Well, there we have it. So…love it? Hate it? Completely confused by it? I realize that Prowl may seem a bit out of character, but you can't really blame her, ne? __I am kind of still laying some ground work for this story, so I apologize for no big action, etc._

_Next time: Prowl ventures out of her hidey hole and finds out just why being the only femme on a tiny ship of stranded mechs may not be in her best interests. Beware of Lamborghinis!_


	3. How to Get on a Tactician's Bad Side

**Who Am I? – Part 2**

Transformers (G1) Verse  
Characters: Prowl, Jazz, Bluestreak, Hound and Bumblebee

Rating: PG

Warnings: Nothing really. Perhaps a curse or two, but surprisingly mild. O_O

Disclaimer: I do not own Transformers. I just wish I did.

_A/N: So, yeah. The bunnies finally decided to grace me with their presence. Thankfully they were kind enough to divulge two chapters of femme! Prowl, so a second one shall follow shortly. ^_^_

* * *

Out of all the times Prowl had approached the perpetually open doors of the rec room, they had never looked as foreboding as they currently did. This included the tactician's initial inspection of said doors right after their installation.

And yet...there they were. An open maw waiting to swallow her up and spit her out into a group of bots she had relied upon for countless vorns, and yet suddenly felt as though she knew so very little about them.

Prowl, head tactician and second in command of the Autobot forces, had done his best to keep a careful distance from the troops under his command. Friendships were few, but true and there none the less. Intimate relationships on the other hand were avoided like a bad case of rust. It was not as though he did not crave that sort of thing. He was, after all, a mech with a spark that pulsed the same as any other. The issue now was that very pulse. It was just different enough to make blending into the background a rather large problem for Prowl.

It was not as though Cybertronians were all that prude about which gender shared with which. Femmes were too few for a mech to be overly particular, even though a portion of their core programming encouraged mixing genders for the sake of creating new life. Add to the situation that their entire crew had been comprised of mechs before they crash landed, and well, it's not as though the tactician had never been on the receiving end of a proposition at the Ark. The difference now was quite painfully obvious as she girded her gears and entered the suddenly deadly silent room.

The slender, monochromatic femme could feel every optic boring into her regardless of how she endeavored to ignore them. For the record, being the center of that kind of attention quite plainly 'sucked aft', to borrow a term from Jazz. She would have much rather spent the next weeks locked away in her quarters until they fixed whatever had happened to her.

Avoiding this very occurrence had ranked high in her reasons to remain a recluse, but no matter how she had endeavored to stay in the sanctity of her room, it was not to be so. After two days of isolation, Ratchet had unceremoniously broken into her room and informed her that if she did not leave said room and properly refuel, he would drag her by the wing tips to his med bay and give the energon to her intravenously. Up until that point the tactician had deduced exactly how long she could go on the fuel currently in her tank, especially if she was actually regular with her recharge periods. She could have gone at least another four days before having to restrict her activities and further conserve energy. But again, that surly medic had other ideas and damn him to the Pit for it.

Not an iota of Prowl's insecurity showed on her smooth faceplates as she filled a cube from the dispenser. Time seemed to drag on as the glass container slowly filled. She almost decided the hell with it and stopped, but thankfully time returned to normal and her task was accomplished. Thinking that she might just make it out of the room without something or someone causing embarrassment, the slight bot made for the exit with as much haste as she could...without looking like she was in a hurry, of course.

"Hey, Prowl!"

The young voice of her protégé caught the tactician's attention immediately and she found herself halting and seeking its owner out of habit. The gunner was seated at a table with Bumblebee and Hound—not the worst lot for her to interact with as she currently was, given the choice. It wasn't as though she could refuse her charge, regardless. In spite of a few misgivings, the black and white found herself walking over to their table.

"Hello, Bluestreak. How are you?" In spite of her changed appearance, the femme still sounded in a way like her old self—controlled, slightly monotone and calm.

"Oh, I'm fine. Great now that I can see that you're all right, at least you seem all right. Are you? This really must be tough to get used to, but hey, don't worry. I can totally help out with anything that you need, okay? Just ask, Prowl. Honestly. And I'm sure that 'Bee and Hound will help as well, right guys?"

Bumblebee cut into the young mech's diatribe quickly at that convenient breaking point. "Yeah, don't worry, Prowl. We'll do what we can to make sure the crew keeps to their best behavior."

Nodding slightly in thanks, Prowl gave the two youngsters her minimalistic smile. "Thank you, you two. Hopefully it will not be necessary."

"Why don't you sit for a few with us, Prowl? It would probably do you some good to get in a little socialization while you can."

Not normally suspicious of this mech, Prowl found herself inexplicably gaging the open expression on the scout's faceplates before deciding that he was being genuine and that there probably was no harm in the offer. He would have made the same suggestion on any other day, and had in fact done so in the past. Gingerly, she took the last open chair and carefully placed her drink on the table. Looking up, she was met with three, wide opticked stares.

Frowning and doing her best to keep her expression flat, she cleared her vocals. "What?"

Seemingly shaking himself out of his stupor, Hound smiled self-deprecatingly. "Sorry, boss. You got to admit that it's a bit of a change to take in. I mean, there's no doubt it's you, just...well..."

"...Who'd have guessed our Prowler would make such an attractive femme, eh?" A lyrical voice finished for the now flustered Jeep.

Glaring slightly at the Porsche leaning over her shoulder, Prowl grated out a warning, "Jazz..."

Shrugging unrepentantly, the black and white continued unfazed, "'s the truth Prowler. No sense beating around it. You were a fine mech before and you're a fine femme now."

Not knowing what to make of her friend's comment, the tactician simply rolled her optics and did her best to ignore him.

"B...but that shouldn't matter, right?" Bluestreak stuttered out. "Prowl is still the same bot."

"True, true. You know that and I know that, but we'll need to get the other mechs past the package, at least initially. You have to know, Prowler, that you'll be getting some extra attention and probably of the obnoxious kind at first."

"Not that I do not get enough of it currently, Jazz."

"Hey, hear me out, femme."

The dark look the saboteur received made him throw up his hands in apology.

"Look, bots are going to be curious. We might as well head them off by saying yes, you've changed, but no it won't make a lick of difference on how you operate."

Optics blinking, the door winged femme considered the statement shrewdly. "Has there been concern over my ability to do my work?"

"No, no nothing like that, but no sense leaving an opening for it to happen." The Porsche's grin seemed a little strained to the femme. A bit...forced.

Prowl sensed that there was more going on than what the saboteur was telling her, but if he was not divulging all of his information right then, there was probably a good reason and she trusted that he would tell her when the time was right. Prowl's hard expression softened at the thought of how much trust she placed in Jazz time and again. It caused a strange warmth in her chest plates right around her spark thinking of the security that came from having someone in her life that she could rely upon so much—especially during such trying times.

The other mechs at the table watched in rapt fascination at not only the open expression of emotion from their normally reserved SIC, but also the myriad that she cycled through in such a short span of time. Jazz noticed the odd silence that settled over the group, but did not comment. Instead he did his best to steer them back onto another conversational track and do what he did best—distract.

"So Blue, Ironhide tells me that you've certified on explosives handling and preparation. Ready to get off the perimeter and be a part of my team?"

The grey mech's optics bulged a bit as he hastily explained that it was just something he had wanted to learn for fun and how being a black operative would not work well with his frame type. But where Bluestreak was loquacious, Prowl was dead silent and Jazz was not the only one to notice. Hound glanced warily at the femme before subtly leaning back from ground zero. As old and experienced as the gunner was, his mentor was still quite...protective of him. Add on some hyperactive femme programming and Jazz better be tendering a will and soon.

Bluestreak broke from his ramblings upon noticing the almost electric charge between the two most senior officers at the table. Just like Hound and Bumblebee, the younger mech quickly and quietly put a healthy breadth of space between himself and his mentor and friend.

The saboteur wilted in his seat as optics as cold as the furthest reaches of space speared him in place. Prowl was. Not. Happy. In the face of such a fearsome foe, Jazz was admirably trying to hold on to his belief of being well within his right to suggest such a career move for the gunner. One could tell by the raised set of his chin plating and the slightly narrowed visor that he was prepared to back his casual comment as such. Prowl could give a flying frag less.

As a tactician, she knew the risks associated with the Autobot Third's line of work. Her battle computer—dormant up until this point—came alive with much gusto, logging the multiple scenarios of such a move for the gunner. His odds of survival nearly made Prowl choke on the sip of energon she had tried to ingest. All of this added up to a **very** unhappy femme and a saboteur who was having the first inklings of doubt about his righteous stance.

The staring match that ensued was to become one of legend amongst the Autobots. Not a single word was ever uttered, nor a gesture made by either participant. Some suggested that a conversation via comm link might have been taking place, but there was no spark present with the ball bearings to actually ask either bot to validate whether or not it was true. For no less than five minutes the mech and femme simply stared at each other while the rest of the occupants of the table dared to not vent one exhalation during the entire exchange.

In the end Jazz relented, completing his imitation of a dying flower by shrinking fully into his chair under the baleful glare of his Commanding Officer. He attempted to put on his most pitiful expression in an attempt to save the remainder of his plating and ease the indignant femme's ire, but it was to no avail. Deciding that survival was the way to go for the day, the normally smooth and controlled saboteur left the room in all due haste. With a mumbled half-aft excuse (apology for all they could tell), the Porsche did his fastest recorded sprint on foot out of the rec room, not bothering to hold onto any iota of decorum.

Door wings twitching in smug pleasure, Prowl allowed herself a small smile of satisfaction before turning to the still silent mechs.

"If you will excuse me, I have an appointment with Ratchet. Have a good rest of your day and please stay out of trouble." She imparted demurely.

The two scouts and gunner nodded vigorously in response, but seemed a little glossa-tied at the moment. Unconcerned, the tactician left at a leisurely pace. After the slight femme had departed the room, each mech seemed to sag into their place like puppets whose strings had just been cut.

"Primus. I forgot how difficult it can be to win an argument with a femme." Hound wiped his brow theatrically in relief.

"Argument? Try execution." Bumblebee responded in kind. Turning to the shocked gunner, he continued. "Sorry, Blue, but I think that Special Ops is not in your near future. Or late future. In fact, I'd not bring it up with Prowl…well…for a long, long, long time—for all of our sakes."

Bluestreak frowned sadly at the prospect, but had to begrudgingly agree with his friend.

"Yeah, I always thought that Prowl could be protective, and that was fine. The new Prowl makes me glad I'm not in any relationship with any bot. I'd feel pretty badly for them."

With slightly forced chuckles, the three mechs' conversation hesitantly resumed, switching to lighter, safer topics for the time being.

Sadly, all occupants of the table (both former and current) had failed to notice the tall twin frontliners seated in their usual corner observing the entire interaction. The ruby red twin, in particular would have warranted closer attention than usual. He had openly and unabashedly watched the sleekly built, long-legged femme that was his Commanding Officer both enter and exit the room. It took his brother's sharp elbow plate into his side to snap him out of his reverie.

Throwing an accusatory look at the golden mech, Sideswipe settled back into his previous slouched position. By all appearances, nothing had changed, but upon closer inspection his optics had taken on a more calculating look. Prowl had always been a challenging opponent—one that the Lamborghini looked forward to trading barbs and other such pleasant things with. For the first time, the thought of any interaction with the stoic Second was making his engine rev and run hot.

Oh, what was a simple mech to do?

* * *

_A/N: Ut-oh. Looks like Jazz is in the turbo-dog house and Sideswipe is up to no good. Prowl better be sticking to her guns from here on out._


	4. How NOT to treat a Femme

**Who Am I **(Part 4)

Transformers (G1) Verse  
Rating: PG  
Characters: Prowl, Ratchet, one troublesome red twin and a couple of organics.

Warnings: Still nada.

Disclaimer: I do not own one iota of the Transformers. Nyah nyah.

_A/N: And here Ratchet steps in it while Sideswipe gets stepped on._

_Thank you to everyone who has fav'd, reviewed, follow'd, etc. I really, really appreciate it. :)_

* * *

"...And that is why it would probably be best if we send Prowl back to Cybertron."

The sound of something fragile colliding with the metal floor had Ratchet turning around with a growing sense of dread. Of course Prowl would choose now of all times to casually drop by the med bay. Especially considering how infrequently she...er he used to visit here in the past.

A single, pale servo reached up to partially cover a quivering lower lip plate as wide, baby blue optics reflected shock and perhaps a little bit of...hurt? As if seeming to realize her audience, the femme quickly did her best to school her expression, glancing briefly at the floor to assess the datapad that had slipped through suddenly numb digits.

Quickly, she stooped down and carefully collected the cracked device. "Forgive me, Ratchet. I meant to comm you before I arrived. I was just dropping off a datapad from Perceptor."

Taking a step towards the obviously upset tactician, Ratchet started, "Wait, Prowl...", but was neatly cut off.

"I'll see that you get a replacement. Good day to you, Spike, Carly." And with that the slender bot had vacated the room faster than the medic could cycle another breath.

A bit at a loss for once, the medic watched the door for a moment as if hoping the femme would return just as quickly as she left. Not that it did a lot of good.

"So, are you just going to stand there, or are you going to go after her?!" An annoyed feminine voice interrupted his rushed thoughts.

Glancing down at Carly, the medic leveled her with a glare, or at last tried to. The young woman was unaffected by the look, and in fact returned it much more effectively. Pointing at the now closed door to emphasize, she continued to glare at the rather larger than her medibot all the while unaware of Spike cringing next to her. Nobody spoke to Ratchet that way in his med bay. Not even Prime.

"Well? You need to fix this!"

Giving the tiny blonde a mulish look, the white and red bot grumbled. "She just needs some time to sort things out. Prowl will be fine."

"Maybe before, but certainly not now. Just consider how you would handle suddenly finding out that all of your comrades—your friends—think you to be a liability and are planning to ship you off with or without your consent. I'm sure that Prowl is hurt and what she really needs is a friend to reach out and clear things up for her."

Still frowning, the medic had to admit that the human girl, who was several million years his junior, was right. Not like he needed to admit it out loud. Crossing his arms, he regarded the two youth. "That's enough input from you two today. I think Bumblebee is between shifts now. Why don't you go join him?"

Before Carly could reply, Spike was wisely pushing her towards the doors, even as she protested. Once they closed, Ratchet's expression quickly ran a gamut of emotions, from worried to stern to contemplative, and finally to decisive as he quickly hailed Wheeljack to cover the rest of his shift. He had some straightening out that needed to be done.

* * *

Muttering to himself darkly with promises of pain toward anyone that stumbled into his warpath, the dark cloud who was the Autobot's Chief Medical Officer stalked from hallway to hallway in search of his missing charge. One would think that finding the only femme on base would not be a difficult feat, especially considering that the mechs were still not used to her new form. But noooo...some stupid, sulking femme had to pull a disappearing act to rival even that of their resident saboteur…who was also strangely off the grid at the moment. No matter.

Letting loose an inarticulate growl as the weapons range was yet another bust (and subsequently scaring the ever living daylights out of an unfortunate Mirage) the medic stomped back towards his haven to refuel and calm the frag down. Maybe it was a good thing that he couldn't find the femme at the moment.

More snarls and unflattering comments followed in the wake of the frustrated medic as he rumbled away, completely missing the telltale energy signature of just the individual he was looking for. Wide, baby blue optics peered warily around a burnt orange corner silently watching her pursuer stomp away. Frowning to herself for her own cowardice and childish behavior, the femme decided that she would make a point to visit Ratchet...once he let off some steam, of course.

Letting out a breath she didn't realize she had been holding, Prowl turned to head the opposite direction of the medic and nearly ran chevron first into a broad, cherry red chestplate. Giving an abortive squeak, the femme backed up and did her best to level a glare at the lurker. "Sideswipe!" she hissed venomously at the unwelcome figure blocking her path.

Completely immune (or perhaps just oblivious) to the smaller bot's ire, the Lamborghini leaned down so that he and the monochromatic femme were at optic level. "Hi, Prowl! How's it going?"

The mech's voice clearly echoed down the hall, much to the black and white's displeasure. Making frantic motions with her servos the femme forcefully backed the taller mech out of the view of the main hallway. Sideswipe, happy for the physical contact and close proximity just played along. He was more than agreeable to move to a more private setting if that was what his CO wanted.

The frontliner had been trying to get some one-on-one time with the femme ever since he first laid optics on the tactician's new frame in the rec room more than a week ago. She had been noticeably absent since then, a fact that bothered Sideswipe more than he was willing to admit. The tactician had always provided a grand challenge to him in the past, intellectually. With her new looks, she now sported the entire package of that which interested the Lamborghini.

Much to his twin's overwhelming displeasure, the red mech had gotten the thought process stuck in his helm to pursue Prowl and that somehow the tactician being a femme would make her more amenable to his advances. Primus only knew how oblivious the mech version had been to his charms. Staring down at the slight bot frantically glancing around, the red twin grinned merrily to himself before taking full advantage of the situation...and reaching out to slide his servos over that curved aft to get in a good grope.

Prowl glanced nervously around her, certain that any moment would bring the boxy white mech bearing down upon her. She might have made up her mind to clear things up with Ratchet, but she knew better than most that timing was everything. The feeling of two large servos cupping her aft out of nowhere snapped Prowl to attention instantaneously.

Shimmying quickly out of Sideswipe's hold she glared energon daggers at the mech-completely scandalized. The tall, red bot merely grinned unrepentantly back at her, which further served to infuriate the femme. "Just what the frag do you think you are doing, Sideswipe!?"

"Oh, just making the best of an opportunity. You should know by now that's my MO, Prowlie." Again, he grinned impishly at the fuming femme. Completely ignoring how much the aforementioned femme has stiffened at the nickname and the low decibel growl building in her chassis, the red mech sidled up next to her, casually draping an arm across the narrow white shoulder plating. "What do you say we go to your office where you can tell me what a bad mech I've been again?"

Chin tucked to her chestplates, the Lamborghini could not make out her response too well with her chevron and the lip of her helm blocking his view. Not that he had long to wait for an answer. In a feat of agility that momentarily had the red mech awed, Prowl slipped his hold, spun around, and landed a thickly plated toe into Sideswipe's less thickly plated groin region. The loud smack of the impact rang loudly down the halls, but the tactician was beyond caring. She was more satisfied with the now kneeling mech before her, hunched over in extreme pain as her well-aimed kick had certainly found its mark.

"Let that be a warning to you and any other bot missing a few bolts. Don't. Touch. Me."

All the curled up bot could manage was an answering groan. Unsatisfied with his response, Prowl grabbed a jet black helm horn none to gently and yanked the twin's helm up to be sure he saw her deadly calm expression. Her next words were voiced in a low, cold tone that guaranteed a very dark ending for the mech.

"And I can promise you this, Sideswipe...the next time you try something, cleaning detail for the next month will seem like a car wash compared to what I will do to you. Are we clear?" A vigorous nod was all the answer that the door winged femme needed as she abruptly released her captive before stalking off.

* * *

(Several hours later in the twins' quarters)

"You have got to be fragging kidding me?!"

Words failed Sunstreaker as his twin gave him a helpless shrug. The yellow mech had returned to his quarters after his patrol to find his dough-head twin curled in the fetal position on his berth moaning in pain. When he was able to pry out of the normally talkative mech what exactly had happened, the golden warrior had slapped a servo to his forehelm. There was no way this idiot was related to him.

"After all of this, you're still interested in Prowl?"

"Heh. What can I say? The femme's got a nice right kick. You should have seen the leg attached to it." Throwing his hands up the golden warrior threw himself onto his berth, face down and did his best to suffocate himself with a pillow.

* * *

_A/N: Still kind of a light-sparked story here. Hopefully it is still enjoyable and entertaining. Next up: Ratchet tries to get back on Prowl's good side while Sideswipe attempts to get on any part of Prowl.;)_

_Please R&R...really...let me know what you think. ^_^_


End file.
